


My Other Half

by gemjam



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-03
Updated: 2014-06-03
Packaged: 2018-02-03 07:14:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1735805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gemjam/pseuds/gemjam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a season where everything's falling apart, Adrian's mind presents him with a new puzzle to solve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Other Half

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mistress_shiny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistress_shiny/gifts).



> Many many thanks to twowittoowhoo for her hand holding and to zeraparker for her support and for looking this over for me.

Adrian Newey doesn't daydream; he processes. It's the brain of an engineer, always ticking over with a problem, and sometimes he'll be in the shower or driving home or eating a sandwich when the solution will hit him like a bolt of lightning and he'll run to his study dripping wet or pull over to the side of the road and grab his sketchpad or leave his lunch forgotten and wonder later why he's hungry.

It works the other way too. Sometimes he'll be working on the design of an integral part of the car, no space for anything in his head but visualisation, translating it to the page, when something will hit him, some realisation about his life that he took for granted. That's why, when he's supposed to be drawing up the discussed upgrades while everyone else is in China, he finds himself sat at his drawing board in his office in Milton Keynes, sketching an anatomically correct heart.

Adrian can't remember the last time the empty half of his bed was actually empty. It's true, he hasn't shared it with anyone in a very long time, but he weighs down that half of the duvet with books and journals and it gives him a sense of security he refuses to believe is false. It's a physical comfort having something there, forcing the covers tighter around his body. When he was a kid he used to cocoon himself and it's that same kind of sensation now. It's not because he's missing anybody being there. That's what he's always told himself.

He locks the drawing in his desk drawer and drives home, the dark setting in before he reaches his destination. He stands in the doorway of his bedroom, staring at the not-empty empty side of his bed, and it doesn't feel quite like a lie but it doesn't feel like the truth either. It's a problem to be solved and somehow that heart feels like the key to it all.

He walks across the room, piling up the books and placing them on the floor, wafting the flattening duvet to try and get some life back into it. He follows his usual bedtime routine, he's a creature of habit no matter where he is in the world, and then he climbs beneath the covers, the lightness of his bedding feeling strange to him already.

It's been a long day, strange hours kept, needing to be awake when the cars were on track in China, on call for strategy and advice, as well as visiting Mark at Silverstone for his first race of the season, all grown up from his Red Bull roots. Any spare minutes were spent in engineering meetings or sat at his drawing board, trying desperately to find something that's going to make this season less of a complete disaster.

And so he should sleep. He should be exhausted. It's not even that he can't switch off, he's never taken problems to bed with him, he's smart enough to know it won't lead to a solution. And so there's no equations or aero buzzing around in his brain as he closes his eyes, no race cars painting on the insides of his eyelids. There's nothing to distract him except for covers that refuse to hug him like he's used to, free to move with him as he turns over, a fluidity to it that he can barely stand. By two in the morning he's piling the books back onto the bed and he sleeps like the dead after that.

The race doesn't go as terribly as it could, they're in decent points scoring positions and for now they have to take what they can get. Going backwards is never a good feeling though and everything about this year feels like freefalling. As he sits in his office after lunch, contemplating the new front wing design, his conversation with Mark from the previous day runs around in his head.

"Sometimes you have to accept that you've outstayed your welcome, mate."

Adrian had opened his mouth to protest but Mark dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

"You have to know when enough is enough," he said. "You have to make as graceful an exit as you can."

"And you smashing your face into the podium," Adrian said. "That's graceful?"

"For an Aussie that's fucking ballet, mate," Mark grinned.

Adrian stares at the new elements he's added to the front wing and he wonders if it's enough. He wonders if it will ever be enough. Maybe that's what this feeling is; time to move on. This car isn't going to win a race any time soon and he knows that it's the engine, the new regulations, but he can't help but feel as though he's let them all down. His reputation is a heavy burden to carry.

As if they can read his mind, the call from Ferrari comes not long afterwards. Adrian's not playing games when he refuses to give a clear cut answer to the media. There's no expectation that Red Bull will give him a higher salary offer if he plays coy with them, he just wants to make sure that he considers all his options, for all of their sakes. Maybe his time with Red Bull has run its course. Maybe he's taken them as far as he can and he has nothing left to offer them.

He instinctively starts to pile things onto the empty side of the bed in his hotel room that night, the thoughts borne of answering the same question too many times buzzing around his head, when he catches himself, looking down at the books and bags he's shoved on top of the duvet. He shakes his head, suddenly determined that he needs to break the habit. It doesn't seem healthy.

Moving everything to the floor he climbs beneath the covers, trying to pinpoint the exact thing that unnerves him about being able to move freely. When was the last time he shared a bed? It doesn't quite bear thinking about. It's not like he's some kind of celibate monk but he doesn't invite people back to his. He only has half a bed after all. It's been a long time since he's shared anyone's bed though, forgetting somewhere along the way that loneliness was an option. He doesn't feel lonely though, does he?

After a disturbed night of sleeping he joins Christian for breakfast at the Energy Station, stirring his coffee while he considers that anatomically correct heart in his desk drawer in Milton Keynes, the feeling of incompleteness that has suddenly crept in. He looks up at Christian who is playing with his phone and he almost doesn't want to interrupt.

"What's on the empty half of your bed?" Adrian asks.

Christian looks up at him, blinking a couple of times. "Nothing," he responds. "It's empty."

"Yes," Adrian agrees, looking down at his coffee. "Of course it is."

"What's on yours?" Christian asks.

"My other half," Adrian mutters, because that's what it feels like. Books, journals, words and sketches and work. That's what he married, isn't it?

Christian doesn't say anything to that, leaves shortly afterwards. It's not until they're back in England, the predicted contract shoved in front of Adrian, a plea for his faithfulness, that Adrian realises just how little he's seen of Christian lately. When they were winning, when Adrian's cars were unbeatable, Christian always seemed to be by his side, supporting what he was doing, talking him up, making sure he had everything he needed and more. Christian wants him to sign that contract but it feels almost like a formality, a way to get under Ferrari's skin. It's not a foregone conclusion for either of them that his signature will go on that line. Adrian's not even sure anymore if Christian would care if he refused.

He stares at Christian over the top of that piece of paper, but they're not alone so he can't ask. The question would have come easily once but it feels almost like they're living different lives, drifting apart on a sea of indifference. Christian's got a new baby and it's not Adrian's car. Adrian doesn't even know what happened to Christian's marriage and he should, shouldn't he? He would have done, once upon a time.

He signs and they all shake hands and he knows it's the right thing to do. His heart is here with this team, he made a commitment to them a long time ago, and he's going to see this through. It gives him a renewed sense of purpose as he walks back to his office, a reminder of just what he and Christian set out to do 8 years ago. He'd thought of retiring back then of course, leaving Formula 1 when he left McLaren, but Christian was young and passionate and Adrian believed in him. They've all taken such a battering lately it's hard to find that enthusiasm again. Losing on your way up is to be expected; losing on your way back down is a knife right through the heart.

He thought signing the contract might settle things for him, stop this gnawing incompleteness that has been troubling him ever since China. He turns from his drawing board and stares at his desk, at the drawer, knowing what's inside. Something compelled him to draw that picture as he sat here, so far away from the action. He should have been on the pitwall. He should have been at Christian's side. He doesn't like this distance between them that exists even when they're in the same room.

He hops down off his stool, unlocking the drawer and taking the picture out before making his way to Christian's office. Christian is typically buried in work, looking up at Adrian's knock on the door and then straightening himself up, looking instantly worried like Adrian's about to ask for that contract back. Instead, Adrian presents him with the drawing.

"I drew this for you," he says. "When you were in China."

"Thank you," Christian responds automatically, staring at it like he has no idea what it is.

"It's a heart," Adrian supplies.

"Yes," Christian agrees, looking utterly perplexed.

"An anatomically correct heart," Adrian continues, because he feels the need to justify it. "Well, it's better than this," he says, grabbing a pen and drawing a couple of hearts on the top of a piece of paper, the kind a teenage girl might draw. "I mean, what is that?"

"That's, uh, that's a very important piece of paperwork," Christian says, his face creasing into a frown. "Now with love hearts on the top of it."

And then suddenly he laughs, looking up at Adrian, and the tension is gone, just like on the best kinds of days when nothing could beat them, not when they were together.

"Do you want to go to dinner?" Adrian asks.

"Dinner?" Christian repeats, sobering up at the question.

"Thai," Adrian suggests.

"Thai," Christian echoes.

"Why are you repeating everything I say?" Adrian asks.

Christian smiles again, shaking his head and looking back down at Adrian's drawing. "I don't know." He places the picture on his desk and looks up at Adrian. "Dinner sounds good."

Adrian goes home and gets changed before meeting Christian at the restaurant and he's pleased to see that Christian has done likewise. It makes it feel like an occasion. The word 'date' is just slightly out of his reach. He feels both incredibly old and incredibly young at once.

They share a bottle of wine over dinner and it's not so different to all the other times they've eaten together around the world, sometimes at racetracks, sometimes at restaurants, sometimes at events where both of them would rather have been anywhere else. There's no distractions here though, no colleagues or acquaintances or sponsors to entertain. The main attraction is each other.

Christian has always been tactile but that hand on Adrian's forearm as they stand at the taxi rank, it feels different, more calculated, a confirmation of a question Adrian's been too afraid to ask all evening because he doesn't even know the answer himself. He suggests a nightcap back at his house and Christian accepts, Adrian spending the taxi ride staring at the empty space between them.

Adrian doesn't invite people back to his place often. Christian's been here before, but not under this context. His house is presentable, he's clean and organised, but his bed is simply not fit for two, not in its current state. Adrian knows it's something he has to change eventually; he just needs to find someone worth changing for.

They have a whiskey and then they have another one, an expensive single malt that Adrian doesn't remember buying and probably didn't. It's ironic that once you have the money to pay for things, people seem to give them to you for free. It's ironic that once something's taken away from you, you realise you took it for granted all these years. That and a million other clichés.

"My bed is full of books," he says.

Christian looks at him. "Where do you sleep?"

Adrian smiles, amused by the misunderstanding. "Half my bed is full of books."

"Oh," Christian says. He leans forward, places his empty glass on the table. "Why?"

"It happened gradually," Adrian shrugs. "I don't know why. I can't sleep without them now."

Christian nods, looking thoughtful. "I have to have my left foot out of the covers or I can't sleep, no matter how cold it is." He looks up at Adrian. "I don't know why either."

It's not really the same thing but Adrian appreciates the effort to share a little part of himself, to not let Adrian be weird all on his own. That's what friends do for each other after all. Adrian wants to explain that this isn't a sleep quirk, it's his entire personality, an aloneness strategy of sorts. He also wants to explain that he'd rather have Christian than a pile of books but he's not sure he's come to terms with that fact himself yet.

Adrian looks at him, his pursed lips, and he wonders if he's had too many drinks or just enough as he leans in to steal a kiss. It's a series of kisses really, each one a little firmer than the last until their mouths fit together, Adrian's bottom lip between both of Christian's, and Adrian's always kind of had a thing for tessellation.

They pull apart, Adrian's hand lingering on the back of Christian's neck, briefly touching his cheek before he lets it drop down to his lap. Christian breathes in deeply through his nose, his chest puffing out, and then he sighs.

"I can't lose anything else this year," he says quietly, as though he's afraid to admit it out loud.

Adrian stares at him, the enormity of the words sinking in, because Christian doesn't think he's something to gain, he thinks he's something to lose.

"I'll move the books."

He gets to his feet, heading for his bedroom, trusting that Christian will follow after him. Piling the books onto the floor this feels different to last time, experimentation turned to real life corroboration.

It's strange how the intimacy of getting ready for bed with Christian feels so familiar. This is something they've never done before, but all the groundwork, the years of working so closely together that made this familiarity grow, it makes this easy, a natural extension of what they already have, an inevitable conclusion.

They climb beneath the covers, shifting so that their bodies are touching but they're not crowding each other. Adrian stares at the ceiling, listening to Christian's breaths, finding himself falling into rhythm with them.

"If I went to Ferrari," Adrian begins, "Or Amercia's Cup or anywhere else... It wouldn't change this."

Christian smiles, turning his head to look at Adrian, gratitude and acceptance so clear in his eyes. He sighs, moving around, and Adrian knows that he's freeing his left foot from the covers so he can sleep. Reaching over, Adrian places a kiss on the side of his neck, Christian murmuring a noise of thanks.

The covers are all wrong of course, lifted up where they should be weighed down, but it doesn't disturb Adrian as much as it did on the nights he was on his own. Sharing the space with someone who understands is more than half the battle.

When he wakes up in the night, Christian's body wrapped around him, it's that weighed down feeling the books always simulated, the cocooning he's craved since childhood, and Adrian smiles as he closes his eyes. He can feel Christian's heart beating against his back, Christian's anatomically correct heart, messy and fallible but so so real.


End file.
